


if it’s the last thing i do (then it’s worth it)

by the_cosmos_lonely (dheiress)



Series: and then they were all eldritch horrors (oh god, they were all eldritch horrors) [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Body Horror, Eldritch, Fucked up trains, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/pseuds/the_cosmos_lonely
Summary: There is a man in Martin’s dreams. He couldn’t see this man’s face or hear his voice, he couldn’t even remember his name but Martin remembers the warm contentment that fills him up at the sight of the man. In the dreams, though, he frets at the new boniness the man’s frame has taken to, at the new lines on his face and the burns on his hand oddly shaped like another’s hand. In the dreams, Martin longs to hold that scarred hand, wishing that his own imprint would somehow heal the painful mark away.(In the dreams, Martin only has two arms, two hands wishing to hold that man, fold him into his embrace and hide him from all the horrors of the world. In the dreams, Martin feels his heart beating; not wildly but not calmly either, a pulsing finely teetering on the sharp edge of being alive.)((The Anastasia Fusion AU I keep promising you guys.))
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: and then they were all eldritch horrors (oh god, they were all eldritch horrors) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756762
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	if it’s the last thing i do (then it’s worth it)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Losing Track by The Mechanisms (The Bifrost Incident Album) because Fucked Up Trains, right?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t know how trains work. The pieces of media with explicit train machinery description I’ve consumed are only a handful, that is: Harry Potter, Anastasia, and The Mechanisms’ Bifrost Incident. Please blame them for any train nonsense that crept into this fic.

“You love _tea_ ,” Tim insists, and there’s a crack in the veneer of his dimpled smile, a chip already falling off to reveal savagely gritted teeth. One of Martin’s left hands quickly picks the fleshy piece up before it completely turns porcelain and slots it back into the hole it made, a temporary cure to Tim’s irritation.

“ _Jonathan Sims_ love tea.”

“I wish you’d make coffee instead,” Jon, or the man they’re trying to pass off as Jonathan Sims at least, replies, weariness obvious in all his visible eyes. Martin smiles, or at least he tells himself the corners of his lips twitches upwards, Tim’s bad mood is difficult to remain unaffected by. Not that any of it was Jon’s—sorry, Jonny’s fault—Martin wants this whole deal over with but Tim has been uncharacteristically aggressive in dealing with the poor man and Jon, _Jonny,_ has been passively returning each aggression with increasing exhausted disdain that infuriates Tim further.

Martin tries diffusing the situation before it escalates, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll just check if there’s any in the dining car—”

Jon— _Jonny_ —opens his mouth as if to say something but what comes out instead is a long drawn out breath, his fore eyes closing as the ones on his neck and cheeks blink blearily at Martin. A beat later, his front eyes open, green irises almost glowing in the dim light of the train carriage. He rubs his neck with a gloved hand, all his eyes avoiding contact with Martin’s, and stands up.

“I’ll check it myself.”

Squeezing past Martin, he steps out of the door, the eye on the back of his neck staring unblinking at Martin’s own eight eyes before the door closes between them with a tired squeal. Martin cannot explain the twinge in his heart as that green eye slides out his sight and, instinctively, one of his right hands clutches the folds of the shirts above his strangely constricting heart.

Is this what a stroke feels like?

Shaking himself, Martin swivels back to the other occupant of the room who is sitting beside the foggy window, sullen and almost sinking into his woolen scarves.

“Maybe,” he starts, three of his hands holding three equally cold cups of tea, “maybe, we should tell him the truth?”

Tim laughs a dry, scraping sound that has Martin’s teeth grinding together, “What _truth_ exactly are you talking about, Martin?”

_‘At least something truth like_ ’ is supposed to be Martin’s answer but the train conductor saves him from saying anything at all by peeking into their carriage, limbs twisting through the gaps of the door before their head is pulled inside like a balloon blown in reverse. Their madly swirling eyes are laughing as they announces cheerily, “Ah͘!̵ U͜npl̛a̛nned—We’re d̡eepl͟y͜ s̡o̴rr͞y̵ ̴for ͟th͢ȩ i̡nc̛onvenie̡n͘c͟e ̢bu͟t ǫur th͢ree houŗ jơurne͏y h͢as jus͜t ̨become͏ ͠a ̵t̛hręe da͟y͘ o̡n̶e,̕ f͜o̕lk̷s—͜di̕s̵tor̴t͘i̧on ͜ahead̢, ̛miste̴rs̕! En̴joy!”

Groaning, the lower part of Tim’s face peeled off into an angry frown, “ _Great!_ Just great.”

Martin sighs.

Outside, the train tracks swirl into madness.

* * *

It starts with Tim, or rather with the insistent tapping of sharp fingers on Tim's brain, unknowable and irritating, whispering that he’s missing something. _Missing someone._ His face has cracked completely then as he tells this to Martin, the usual charming grin quickly crumbling away, dropping down the ground like tears with heavy ceramic clinks to reveal a visage frozen in manic fear and hysteria. Martin remembers accidentally stepping on one of the larger shards of Tim’s shed face and what has been a fleshy lump cracked under his wobbly feet like brittle china. He could make tea, he supposes then. The extra pairs of arms have given him a new ease in tea making, after all. But Martin didn’t. Because he knows exactly what Tim has been talking about, knows of that strange knowledge lurking at the corners of his brain softly murmuring _something has gone wrong_ but not being able to pinpoint exactly what.

For as long as he can recall, he has always had three pairs of arms, had always worked for the Magnus Institute, and before Melanie, Basira, and Daisy, it has always been him and Tim working at the Archives, waiting for a head archivist and another assistant that has yet to come.

But none of those things has really sat well with him if given much thought.

So, it ends with them both, along with Melanie and Basira and Daisy, in Elias’ office, the old man smiling at them over his steepled fingers, “I was wondering when you’ll ask about that.”

* * *

There is a man in Martin’s dreams. He couldn’t see this man’s face or hear his voice, he couldn’t even remember his name but Martin remembers the warm contentment that fills him up at the sight of the man. In the dreams, though, he frets at the new boniness the man’s frame has taken to, at the new lines on his face and the burns on his hand oddly shaped like another’s hand. In the dreams, Martin longs to hold that scarred hand, wishing that his own imprint would somehow heal the painful mark away.

In the dreams, Martin only has two arms, two hands wishing to hold that man, fold him into his embrace and hide him from all the horrors of the world. In the dreams, Martin feels his heart beating; not wildly but not calmly either, a pulsing finely teetering on the sharp edge of being alive.

The man turns to him, his lips twisting in what could be a smile but not quite, and opens his mouth to say—

* * *

“What the _fuck_ happened to the tracks?”

All of Jon’s eyes are staring at different directions, some squinting at the kaleidoscope-like view outside the window, some blinking wide at the breathing walls and then there’s his main eyes which seems to be watching a nonexistent tennis match between Tim’s sleeping form and Martin’s own in the other corner of the train car.

Martin waves a hand not occupied with knitting or drinking his third cup of stone-cold tea.

“Oh, you know, one of the Distortion folks might have thought it funny to place a portal for the train to run through. Conductor just said that the journey will be stretched into three days.”

Jon, _Jonny’s_ eyes, all the visible ones at least, swivels towards Martin at this, scrawling with alarm.

“I don’t have enough clothes for that kind of trip,” he grumbles but as he does so, he offers one of the two steaming mugs he’s holding to Martin.

He takes it. It’s tea, and Martin doesn’t know why but the thought of Jon puttering around the dining car to make him tea makes his blood rush to his cheeks and stutter.

“Th-thank you. I have some spare jumpers, if you’d like.”

It might be Martin’s imagination but he thinks Jon, for whatever incomprehensible reason, blushes at this suggestion, not answering at all. Jonny scuttles to the window seat opposite Tim and tucks his small frame into a cocoon, careful not to nudge Tim awake. Martin can’t help but find all this adoring.

The tea lacks sugar and has too much cream but Martin feels a strange contented happiness buzzing inside him drinking it while he knits and stares at the hypnotic swirls dancing outside the train.

From the corners of the train’s walls, blood slowly starts seeping out.

* * *

They found Jon, sorry, _Jonny_ singing throatily in a dive bar in Scotland.

Although, ‘found’ might be the wrong word to use in this scenario.

Daisy had, _has_ , a safe house in Scotland and one of the...traps, if that’s the right word to use for it, has been triggered, alerting Daisy of an intruder in what supposed to be her secret hideout. They aren’t even supposed to know any of this except Elias more or less gave all the information when they confronted him.

“And we’re just supposed to believe all of this? _Just like that,_ ” Melanie scoffs, her fingers twitching and her skin bubbling red with every word out. Blood swims at the peripheries of her eyes, a promise of mindless violence ready to flow out any moment.

Martin and Basira share a look.

“Well, you don’t have to,” Elias says, smiling all the way, he only has two eyes and yet Martin can feel his gaze crawling over his skin. Judging the way the others shift uneasily, he thinks they probably feel it too.

“But,” he starts in such a suggestive tone that Martin can see the tawny feathers under Basira’s shayla hijab flaring up in tension, “if you really want to know more about that niggling feeling of wrongness eating away at your subconscious, you need him to come back here.”

“This... _Archivist_ ,” Daisy grits out, her fur spiking with the same tension Basira’s feathers has flared up, “why can’t we remember him? If he really did exist.”

Elias sighs, “It’s one of the retirement’s... _perks_.”

“And he just,” Tim whispers, “left us? To retire by himself in the country?”

The old man remains silent for a few seconds, before shrugging, “He won’t be able to...retire if any of you had objections to that. So, I’ve always understood that it was a unanimous decision between all of you Archival Assistants to let him...go.”

Martin watches from the corner of his left eyes the way Tim’s throat bobs as he works through his following words, “And if he returns here, we’ll—that irritating feeling that something has gone wrong, it’ll disappear?”

“Everything will go back to the way it was, yes,” Elias replies simply and the pleasant tone his voice has adopted makes Martin want to heave his lunch back up.

Tim’s jaw squares up and his face hardened, an enamel mask of determination, “How do we get him back?”

* * *

“Six archival assistants?”

“Yes,” Martin’s brain stutter, he counted six too but no, his math is wrong, isn’t it? The Archival Assistants are five, and by order they are: Martin, Tim, Melanie, Basira and Daisy. Martin counts them in one free hand. Him, Tim, Melanie, Basira, Daisy. Five archival assistants.

“I mean, no, no, you had, have, _five_ archival assistants.”

There’s a furrow between Jon’s eyebrows and most of his eyes are following the shifting fractal patterns on the train’s ceiling. He’s muttering the names under his breath, counting too on his hand. There’s a long pause after his little finger comes up.

“I swear,” Jon, _Jonny_ , he says, more to himself than to Martin, “I swear, there’s one more person, but I can’t remember—”

At this point, Tim, who has been perfectly content churning a silent stormy look at the windows, leaps up and cries out, “There is _no one else!_ There is no way we would forget another archive assistant—”

But Tim doesn’t finish, the angry scowl chipping away to a greenish, sick look that Martin has only seen on him once. Jon, meanwhile, simply stares at him, lips flattened and an indescribable expression on his eyes.

_Martin,_ whispers a voice, unfamiliar but teasing in that particular way suggesting easy friendship Martin has never known outside Tim, in his head, _don’t you think both of them needs—_

“Tea,” Martin exclaims and two head turn towards his widely smiling face, “let’s talk about _tea_. Jon—Jonathan Sims loves tea but he takes it depending on his moods. He generally takes it without any milk or sugar, but if he’s tired, there should be at least three scoops of sugar there. If he’s angry, he’ll feel better if you put a little milk, whatever the tea is. And if he’s feeling lost, he likes to drink—”

“Coffee instead,” Jon finishes for him, all his eyes staring unblinking at Martin. Martin decides he finds it unnerving, that it is the reason for the way his throat constricts around his breath and longing grips his heart tight. He is _unnerved_ of all that eyes on him, that must be so.

The sickly face drops off from Tim entirely, the whole thing breaking off into fine dust upon reaching the carriage’s writhing floor, and a suspiciously quizzical look has replaced it, “That isn’t in one of the files Elias handed us.”

“Yes, it was,” No, it isn’t, “How could I have known it otherwise, Tim?”

Even Martin himself doesn’t know the answer to that one.

* * *

There is a man in Martin’s dreams. He couldn’t see this man’s face or hear his voice, he couldn’t even remember his name but Martin remembers the curious mix of irritation and fondness swimming up from his chest to his cheeks as the man rants to the old tape recorder in his hands, words rushing out of him in an almost rhythmic chant.

“Oh, whose poor statement is our Jon tearing through right now,” asks the tall woman that sometimes appears beside him in his dreams, she almost reaches Martin’s height and she can comfortably rest her elbow on his shoulder. She mostly does that when she teasingly whispers at Martin’s ear, “look at that indignant little face, I didn’t know I could miss that particular look.”

In the dreams, the woman is long haired and wearing glasses. In the dreams, Martin knows her name.

In the dreams, he chuckles, “he’s recording his comments on that case with the doctor and the teeth-apple.”

In the dreams, s̺̲̫̥͎̭͙ͧ͛ͣͤͣ̄ͪ͗̔̌̎̒̕͠͠͞ą̴̮͉̖̖ͤͤ͋̈́̀͘̕s̷̝̠̮̺͔͍̹̲̲̮̥͎̦̜̺̭͍̭̉͌ͬͧ̿͞h͓̹͕̦̦͎̤̠̩̺̯͔ͥ̅̅ͯ̃̃͂̕ả̷̶̧̼̩̻̻̹͚ͯ̇̈ͫ̃ͤͨ͆ͦͫ̍̎͠, laughs, “You won’t forget about me, right? I’m unforgettable, aren’t I, Martin?”

In the dreams, Martin does not, cannot, answer her ( _of course_ , he would have said) before she disappear because at the same moment she asks him that question the man turns to him, his lips twisting in what could be a smile but not quite, and opens his mouth to say—

* * *

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” is the first thing Jon— _don’t call me that, I don’t like hearing that name, call me Jonny—_ says to Martin and Tim when they found him singing throatily in that dive bar in Scotland.

Although, ‘found’ might be the wrong word to use in this scenario.

Daisy hadn’t known yet about the safety wire tripped in her safe house when they confronted Elias. This did not stop Elias from Knowing about it and Martin can tell that the fact grates at her in the worst way possible. She is more or less rabid when she spits at him, “If you’re all so knowing, then why didn’t you fetch this dear archivist of yours yourself?”

“Ah,” Elias remarks, “I’m afraid that is one of his...retirement plan’s decrees, for the lack of a better term. He can only come back if he wishes it himself, not because of any other reason. Which is why I suggest you make a decision again between yourselves on who’s going to come pick him up. If you’re still interested, that is. ”

“Does it really matter who chauffeurs him back here?” Melanie grouses, blood swelling under the nails biting her palms.

Elias doesn’t answer for a while, smiling.

“No, I just thought, having worked in the archives for the longest time, Martin would have the best chances of pulling our Archivist back into the fold.”

He taps a finger on his desk.

_Tap._

And something scratches at the door in Martin's mind —

_Tap._

Clicking nonsense yet Martin understands—

_Tap._

(—the man turns to him, his lips twisting in what could be a smile but not quite, and opens his mouth to say—)

Elias smiles at him.

( _static noise_ )

“So to speak.”

* * *

Jon sleeps with some of his eyes open.

This makes sense, of course. It’s safer, for one, keeping an eye out while the rest of your body is resting but it’s just that, Jon is wearing one of Martin’s jumpers, okay, but it’s loose on him especially the sleeves and one of it has slid down, or is it slid up, and has bared a skinny arm connected to a previously gloved, now naked hand. The hand is not special in any way except for the fact that it’s burnt, shiny and with an eternal swollen look to it, and there are no eyes on that hand whereas the other is mostly eyes, partially normal human flesh. And there’s nothing wrong with that! Hands can have whatever amount of eyes they like!

Martin is just having some trouble sleeping and has fixated on one of Jon’s hands. That's all. And it’s not Jon’s fault that Martin finds—oh.

All of Jon’s eyes are open now.

All of them are staring at Martin.

* * *

There is a man in Martin’s dreams. He couldn’t see the man’s face but he remembers he only has two eyes because the man is a normal human, of course he’ll only have two eyes.

What is Martin thinking?

The man turns to him, his lips twisting in what could be a smile but not quite, and opens his mouth to say—

**Author's Note:**

> YES! This is the Anastasia AU I was talking about!


End file.
